


Nocturnal Children & Blackout

by DiddiAskew



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29327835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiddiAskew/pseuds/DiddiAskew
Summary: I had an idea and ran with it. Brian and Justin are very young here. It's mostly emotional and bittersweet rambling
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Nocturnal Children & Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> Author: discothequey  
> Genre: alternate universe  
> Rating: PG  
> Disclaimer: Not mine

1 Nocturnal Children  
"You have to be veeeery quiet," Justin whispered, grabbing Brian by the hand and pulling him through the window. "I don't wanna get in trouble."

Brian nodded, scrambling on his purply-black bruised knees over the sill and onto the window seat covered in schoolbooks and sketchpads smudged with graphite. His arms were weak from climbing the trellis, toes cold and damp in his flip-flops from the freezing weather, and his cheeks were red from running, but Justin couldn't see that in the darkness. Justin could see the way Brian's dark hair stuck to his forehead with nervous sweat, how he was wearing ripped jeans with a pajama top, but he couldn't make out the details of his face.

Brian kicked off the black flip-flops he'd thrown on in a hurry, rubbed his dirty feet across the carpet of Justin's bedroom, and began to remove his pants. Justin tossed the other kid a pair of extra sweatpants he had folded in his top drawer. They were too big on him, but always fit Brian just right.

"Thanks," Brian whispered, sliding them on over shaking legs. He was cold, all the hairs were standing up on his arms and legs, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl under Justin's covers and never come out. He sighed, plucking at a hole in his top, and shivered as Justin shut the window before climbing back in bed.

Brian joined him.

The sheets smelled like lavender washing detergent and snuggly little kids who just wanted a peaceful night's rest. They were soft, softer than Brian's at his house, and the boy figured it was because Justin's mom wasn't like his mom. Mrs. Taylor didn't watch taped soap operas all day with a bottle of wine clutched between her hands. Justin never had to come home to his mother passed out on the couch and wonder if she'd finally died.

Brian was jealous. He turned toward his friend in bed, stared into blinking eyes that were blue in the light of day but black at night, and wondered if he kissed him, would he be able to crawl inside him? Would he be able to live the rest of his life as Justin Craig Taylor from a perfect little neighborhood with perfect little parents and a perfect baby sister? He sniffed, because he thought maybe he was crying just a little.

Justin put his hand on Brian's arm and tried to pull him closer. "You can sleep close to me if you want," he whispered, shaggy blond hair flopping into his eyes and curtaining off the glimmer. "Might make you feel better if you're sad."

Brian scooted forward a little until his knees were touching Justin's, and closed his eyes.

The next morning, Jennifer slipped into her son's room to wake him, only to find two pairs of feet sticking out from under the covers and a disheveled mop of chestnut hair mixing with Justin's blond on one of the pillows. She fixed her mouth in a straight line of worry and made her way over to the bed.

She didn't see any bruises, no visible marks, but the tiny little split in Brian's bottom lip was apparent in the dim light of early morning.

Swallowing, throat tight, Jennifer moved to the foot of the bed, pulled the comforter down over the boys' chilly feet, and picked up the bunched, green socks Justin had kicked off in the middle of the night. She dropped them in the hamper, straightened a tiny school sweater from where it was draped over the back of a desk chair, and left the room.

*****

"Mommy?" Justin called from the hallway, pushing down the scrunched leg of his striped pajama pants with his foot and shivering from the winter morning cold. The hardwoods were freezing against his feet and made his toes hurt.

Jennifer stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands off on a dishtowel, and raised her eyebrows. "Yes, honey?"

"Brian's coming for breakfast, 'kay?"

"When did you talk to Brian?"

Justin twisted his face up and shrugged a little, shifting from foot to foot. "Last night, I think."

Jennifer narrowed her eyes, contemplating calling him out, but God, Justin was so darn cute when he lied. She leaned down to his level and gave him a good morning hug. "Tell Brian we're having pancakes," she said into Justin's seashell ear, giving it a kiss before pulling away.

Justin ran straight to the front door, threw it open, and pulled a shivering Brian inside by the front of his pajama top. "We're having pancakes," he told his friend, escorting him into the kitchen. 

Brian rubbed at the scratches on his hands from climbing back down the trellis. The skin was picked, but not bleeding, so he shoved them in the pockets of his jeans and tried to forget.

"Well, you got here fast," Jennifer greeted, flipping a pancake with a sparkling spatula and giving the boy a knowing smile. "Sleep well?"

Brian didn't say anything.

*

Halfway through breakfast, Craig brought two-year-old Molly into the kitchen and slipped her into her highchair. The little girl looked at Brian with her big blue eyes so much like Justin's, and blew him a raspberry.

"Shut up, Molly," Justin whispered secretly, giving his baby sister a dirty look.

Molly blew him one, too, spit spraying everywhere, and Brian laughed even though it made his lip hurt.

*****

It was a cold Saturday. The sun barely poked out from behind the gray clouds scattered across the sky, and everything was less colorful, somehow, as if the world had been desaturated. It was coat and mitten weather, hat with earflaps weather, and Brian had needed to borrow some of Justin's gear before the boys headed out into the yard to play.

They turned on the outdoor radio by the barbecue, and did cartwheels in the Taylor yard to the sounds of Tom Petty singing "Mary Jane's Last Dance" and the neighbors yelling for them to turn it down.

"You're my best friend," Justin laughed breathily, pushing Brian onto the grass and falling on top of him. The ground was cold and wet and made mud spots on the back of Brian's jeans, but Justin was warm and felt like good things, so it didn't matter.

He loved Justin. He wanted to be Justin. He wanted Mrs. Taylor to hug him and cook him breakfast; wanted Mr. Taylor to let him wear his huge, fancy work shoes just to take out the trash; and wanted Molly to pull his hair and bite him when she was mad. But then that meant that there would be no Justin, no blond hair that smelled like Pert and cheeks that turned red when he whispered bad words in Brian's ear, so Brian decided that he just wanted to be Justin's brother. Yeah. That would be good. He would be his brother so he could hug him a lot, and they could stay up late on the weekends eating candy and looking up "penis" and "vagina" in the encyclopedia.

Justin was cool, even though the kids at school all thought he was a smartypants. He kind of talked a lot, but Brian didn't, so things evened out.

"You wanna see something funny?"

Brian looked up at his friend, who was breathing in his face and had a bit of a crusty nose from the cold weather. "What?" He asked, rolling until he was free.

Justin stood up, grabbed Brian by the sleeve of his coat, and pulled him around to the back yard and inside his playhouse. It was dark in there and smelled like sawdust, but blue fabric hung over the windows and the pale light from outside shone through, casting reflections on the walls. It was pretty neat.

"Whatcha got?" Brian whispered, stomping his booted feet against the floor, trying to regain some life in his toes.

Justin dug around in an open box stored in the far corner of the tiny house, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "You have to promise not to tell, 'kay? Daphne ripped it out of a book her parents have and gave it to me."

Brian nodded and took the paper from Justin. He unfolded it, and before his mind was even able to process the image, he burst into laughter. "Eeeew," he voiced loudly, studying the professionally drawn picture of what appeared to be a couple having sex. "Gross!"

Justin laughed, that happy sound Brian liked a lot, and took the paper back. "This position en...ensures deep-" He broke into giggles, then shoved it in Brian's face and told him to finish reading. "Read it."

Brian snorted and murmured, "This position ensures deep pen...pene..."

"Penetration," Justin said loudly, and okay, he was a bit of a smartypants.

Brian gave him a look. "I knew what it said. Just couldn't get it out."

"Reeeead."

"This position ensures deep penetration, as well as clit-oh-ral stim-uh-late-ee-un."

"Clit-oh-ral stimulation."

"What's that mean?" Brian asked, looking at the picture and trying to keep from laughing. "What's a clit-oh-ral?"

"Girl parts, I think." Justin scrunched up his nose and peered at the image. "Gross, gross, girl parts."

"He's very hairy," Brian noted, pointing at the man and chancing a quick glance at Justin, whose cheeks were red.

"Yep."

"Yeah."

The paper ended up folded and shoved back in the bottom of the box under Justin's rollerskates.

Later on, as the boys were sitting cross-legged on Justin's bed, listening to Madonna's latest album and eating Pringles, Brian asked Justin if he could kiss anybody in the whole world, who would it be.

Justin blushed, wiping his salty lips off on his shirt sleeve, and shrugged. "Probably nobody."

"Nobody?"

He shrugged again.

"Kids from school like Alyssa Milano," Brian said, grabbing a stack of chips and shoving them all in his mouth at once. He sputtered a bit, dropping crumbs onto Justin's bedspread, but continued talking. "She's kind of pretty."

"Yeah," Justin breathed, looking down at his lap and then back up and Brian.

"But I wouldn't kiss her."

Something fell between the two of them, and then they were talking about how funny A.C. Slater was, while really talking about a completely different subject. Brian ate his chips, and Justin brushed the crumbs off the sweater Brian was borrowing from him, and then Brian was grabbing Justin's hand and holding it.

Jennifer walked in then, carrying a basket of clean laundry, and Brian scooted no less than ten inches away in a matter of seconds. The boys watched her fold Justin's underwear and tuck them into his drawer, listened to her talk on and on about the weather and how she was taking Molly to get her ears pierced and did they want to go with her, and then she closed the door behind her and the two of them didn't say anything.

*****

The mall was loud and noisy and smelled like stale popcorn with aging butter. Justin loved it. He patted his pocket, which was housing the twenty dollar bill his mother had given him and Brian to share, and smiled at his friend.

"I hate the mall," Brian said, playing with the buttons on his loaned coat and groaning when a woman and her four slobbery children brushed past him. His skin crawled. He wanted to go sit in the car and peoplewatch, instead of being subjected to the sickening smell of cherry slushees and hot dog chili mixing together with human sweat and overflowing bathrooms.

Justin bumped his hip and grabbed hold of his belt loop. "Let's go to the music store. Twenty dollars. We can both get tapes!"

They bought matching Moby albums and a blue Sharpie with which to scrawl their names on the cover. Brian grabbed Justin's tape when he wasn't looking and drew a little heart on the inner insert for him to find later. He smiled to himself and snapped the cap back on.

*****

"Pizza, pizza, pizza!" Justin chanted, elbowing Brian to try to get him to chime in. Molly babbled something that sounded a bit like "pee-tha," and Justin decided that maybe he liked her, if only just a little.

"Brian, what do you think of my son?" Jennifer asked with a teasing smile, checking her rear view mirror and flipping on her turn signal. "I bet you think he's spoiled rotten."

Brian shrugged, because he never really talked to Mrs. Taylor, and grinned shyly. He did think Justin was spoiled rotten, but he would've liked to be spoiled, too, so he kept his mouth shut.

They stopped at Pizza Hut and got their own personal pans. Justin ate the pepperonis off Brian's pizza because they were crispy and Brian only liked them soft, and when they were finished, they used the extra money left over from the twenty to buy rub-on tattoos and a handful each of Chiclets. 

"Mine says, 'Born to be Wild,'" Justin laughed, taking out his tattoo. "What's yours say?"

Brian snorted. "I got the same one. We can be twins."

"Or it can be our Best Friends tattoo." 

Sometimes Justin was weird, but Brian still liked him. He smiled and tossed all his Chiclets in his mouth with one go.

They applied their tattoos in Justin's bathroom with sponges they'd stolen from the kitchen and water straight from the tap. Brian's was on his stomach and Justin's on his arm.

"We have to be best friends forever," Justin whispered, examining the red and black tattoo on his pallid skin.

"We will," Brian said back. "Always."

*****

Brian called his house from the hall phone when it got dark, but hung up after the seventh time because no one was answering. His mom was probably out cold and Claire was probably cutting herself in the bathtub again, begging for attention.

"You can spend the night," Justin said happily. Clueless. Blissfully ignorant. Brian wanted to be him so badly he almost kissed him right then, just to see. Just to see if it'd work. Justin had pink lips and a grape Kool Aid mustache. Brian looked away.

"I want to," Brian murmured, because he did. "But I have to go home," he finished, because he also did. He needed to check things out. Make sure... Make sure Joanie was still breathing and Claire didn't bleed too much. Make sure the money was still in the jar by his bed and Jack hadn't taken it and left like last time. He closed his eyes.

"Brian, honey, are you okay?" Jennifer peered around from the kitchen, a concerned look plastered on her face. "Did you get your mom?"

Brian shook his head 'no,' and shrugged it all off like it was no big deal. Because it wasn't. Or it shouldn't have been. He was strong. He was fine.

"If you want me to run you home, I can." The look on her face made Brian think she knew something, but then it was gone and he wasn't sure.

He swallowed a few times, looked over at Justin, who was munching on a cookie and getting crumbs all over his face, and breathed. "I think I might spend the night," he said, voice small and quiet like that of a mouse. He cleared his throat and looked toward the phone, then down at his bare feet and dirty toes.

Jennifer hugged him, kissed both of his cheeks, and told him he was welcome.

Brian swallowed again, hard, and tried to smile. His lip still hurt.

*****

The boys took a shower together in Craig and Jennifer's bathroom, made mohawks in their hair with shampoo, and laughed when Justin's wouldn't stick up straight because his hair was too long.

"You're so weird," Brian giggled, grabbing the blue loofah from where it hung on the shower rack and tossing it at Justin's head. Justin picked it up and threw it back at Brian, and then they started play-fighting in the shower until the water ran cold and Craig stuck his head in the door, yelling for the boys to cut it out or they'd fall and break their necks.

Justin had already fallen twice. He laughed after his dad closed the door behind him.

*****

Brian called his house again before bed and Claire answered. Her voice sounded thick, like she was smoking, but she swore she wasn't when Brian asked.

"Mom's in bed."

"Okay." Brian felt his breathing slow. "I'm at Justin's."

"Yeah." Claire paused. "I covered for you. Told Mom she said you could go before she passed out."

"I'm spending the night again."

"I'll tell her."

"Okay."

"Dad's not here."

"Okay."

"He didn't come back."

"Okay."

"But we're all right."

"Okay."

"Night."

"Night." Okay. Brian hung up and went to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet and cried for seven minutes before washing his face and running back up the stairs to Justin's room.

"Hey," Justin said, pulling back the covers for Brian to climb inside. The lamp was on, and Justin's Moby tape was open and in the boom box, playing "Hymn" so low that it was almost hard to hear.

Brian didn't say anything. He wiped his nose on his pajama top, which was really Justin's pajama top because his was too dirty to wear, and stretched out under the sheets.

The lamp switched off, but the music played on.

"I like nighttime," Justin said randomly, turning on his side to face Brian. "I like the dark."

This was why Brian loved him. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

And the kiss wasn't what Brian had thought it would be. He'd thought it would be quick, like a ghost of air rushing past his lips, but it wasn't. He'd thought he would've been doing it while Justin was asleep, kissing him so the other boy wouldn't know, so it would be a secret. So he could close his eyes and wish the whole time. Wish that when he opened his eyes, when he woke up the next morning and stretched out in bed, he would be Justin, and Mrs. Taylor would come in to wake him, rub her hands through his hair, and smile like she loved him.

But it didn't happen like that.

Justin reached out to touch Brian's face in the dark, felt out his lips with a shy finger, and then leaned in until they were sharing breath.

Their noses bumped a little, Brian could feel Justin smile when his lips first missed and landed on his cheek, but they soon made it home. Smooth, pink lips touched rough, split ones, and even though they were different, they were the same.

Justin opened his mouth a little to breathe, and then pushed his lips back to Brian's, holding still, counting to four, five, six, and pulling away. He smiled, a beam. Brian saw his teeth glowing in the moonlight.

"You're the only person in the whole world I want to kiss," Justin admitted shyly, closing his eyes once the song was over and it was silent. He was glad it was dark, because he knew his cheeks were on fire.

"Did you see the picture I drew on your tape?" Brian asked, barely a whisper. He rolled onto his back, but tilted his head to watch Justin's eyes blink open and closed.

"What picture?"

Brian smiled. "Look at it tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

The next song began. It was fast, loud, and Justin reached over to turn it off.

"You can leave it," Brian said, grasping Justin's hand and pulling it back. "If you want. I'm not tired yet."

Justin grinned. "We're nocturnal," he murmured, untwisting his fingers from Brian's so he could tuck them under his pillow.

"Nocturnal," Brian repeated through a yawn, closing his eyes. Justin knew so many words. Smartypants. "I like that."  
Blackout  
Sequel to Nocturnal Children

Justin heard the scratching of fingernails digging into the gaps in the trellis before he saw Brian. He smelled spilled alcohol and cigarette smoke before the window opened and a ragged teenager climbed in. He felt the air change, tasted saltiness and chemical substances before the covers flipped back and Brian was sliding underneath, already stripped down to his underwear.

"You need to stop," Justin whispered, turning on his side, blinking at his best friend, his worst enemy, Brian fucking Kinney with sweat-streaked hair and black and blue marks on his jaw.

Brian didn't respond. He shoved Justin until the other boy was facing the other way, and wrapped his arms around him from behind. He kissed the back of his neck, sniffed the clean skin, warm skin, skin that smelled like Ivory soap, and held on.

"Let's run away," he whispered, sliding his chilled fingers up under Justin's T-shirt and across the warm, flat belly he found there. "Run away. To fucking New York. Always wanted to go to New York."

Justin shrugged, shivering against Brian’s cold hand. It was almost three in the morning, Justin was tired, Justin wanted to go back to sleep, Justin didn't want to deal with this. Again. Deal with this again.

"You hear me?" Brian whispered, slipping his hand further up, until his fingers were splayed out across Justin's chest. He wanted to climb inside Justin's T-shirt, right where it was warm and safe and smelled like soap and skin, and hide there until he was eighteen and could go and do whatever the fuck he wanted. Leave his goddamn parents, his drunken mother, abusive fuck of a father, and seventeen-year-old sister who still chopped her arms up with razorblades and cutlery and blamed it on her poor, pitiful life. He'd lie flat against Justin's chest, bury into his skin like a parasite, and stay there, cocooned by an old Dartmouth T-shirt and two pale, skinny arms that held him like a baby.

“I hear you,” Justin exhaled, twisting the corner of his bedsheet in his fingers and trying to make that body behind him—the warm chest against his back, the frozen feet tangled up in his, the carefully stroking fingers sliding nonchalantly across his hardening nipples—go away. He closed his eyes, wanting Brian to be anywhere else but there, anything but broken and bruised, drunk and reeking of stale cigarette smoke and latex bandages.

“Go to sleep,” he said, attempting to ignore the hand moving from his chest to his lower stomach, right at the waistband of his drawstring pajama pants. It stilled, not daring to go further, but the heat of it, the sheer weight of another person’s hand touching skin that was usually only touched by Justin, made the blond’s bones tingle, uncomfortable jolts shooting upward from his toes.

Justin shrugged Brian away, moving into the cold, untouched side of the bed.

“Hey, come back.” Brian’s voice was gruff, tight and tired like guitar strings plucked too often. He shivered in his underwear, fuzzy legs shaking beneath the blankets but chest warm, belly warm, heart warm. His cheeks were cold. Cold and blue.

Justin made no move to return, so Brian twisted onto his back, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his friend’s ceiling and wishing they were real.

***** 

Justin awoke to the scent of cigarette smoke, faint as if carried by an ocean breeze. He stretched, growing legs extending until his toes bumped the footboard of his childhood bed, and opened his eyes, gaze immediately focusing on the half-naked boy perched on the sill of his open window, smoking a stolen cigarette with stained fingers and swollen lips.

“Morning,” Brian offered, turning briefly to watch the figure rise from the bed.

Justin didn’t answer. He got up, straightened his pajamas, and walked on unsteady feet over to the window. The slightest smell of cigarette smoke would get him in trouble, the tiny flakes of ash on the hardwoods under the window would spark an interrogation and lecture, but Justin didn’t say anything. He let Brian smoke because it made him calmer, not as on edge. It made Justin like him more.

“We’re going to the movies today,” Brian said suddenly, crushing the remainder of his cigarette on the windowsill and dropping the butt off the side of the house.

The blond sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Thought we were going to New York,” he replied with an air of sarcasm. His tongue felt thick and dry like a jagged piece of sidewalk chalk.

Brian climbed off the sill and grabbed Justin by the hand, pulling him against his chest. “Changed my mind.”

They stood there for a while, pressed together, warm summer air flowing in the open window and dancing across their skin. Neither boy spoke, just listened to inhales and exhales, hearts beating in discord. Justin wrapped his arms around Brian’s waist and shivered when lips touched the top of his head, but froze when hands began to pull up his shirt.

“Mm,” he hummed, stepping back, cheeks reddening. “Don’t.”

Brian’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You mad at me?”

Justin shook his head no and moved over to his closet, where he began to push through a wall of khaki and navy in order to find his weekend attire.

“Then c’mon. I wanna do that thing again.”

“Mom’ll find out,” Justin breathed, yanking a gray T-shirt off a yellow plastic hanger. Grabbing a pair of folded jeans from where they were stacked on his closet floor, he stepped back out into the main room and tossed everything onto his bed. 

Brian shut the window with a gentle thump, mouth fixed in a straight line. “She won’t. I promise she won’t. She didn’t last time, did she?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Justin swallowed the pool of nervous spit collecting in his mouth and shrugged. “Just don’t want to.”

“You’re no fun,” Brian said, voice hard and straight like a wooden arrow. He snatched his jeans, discarded on the floor the night before, and pulled them on, eyeing his friend the entire time. “What’s the point in having a gay best friend if you can’t…play every once in a while?” He cocked his eyebrow in what would one day become his trademark fashion, and smirked.

Justin was not amused. He turned away, his back to Brian, and changed clothes in silence.

***** 

Jennifer Taylor swallowed down the rest of her coffee, grimacing at the lukewarm liquid that tasted like four packets of sugar substitute, and with one hand, fiddled with the knob on the oven.

Molly was running around, sandaled feet slapping against the hardwood floors, chatting quite animatedly to “Lily,” her imaginary friend, on a pink plastic telephone.

Eight o’clock was too early, Jennifer thought, setting down her empty mug and giving the cinnamon toast a quick survey. Too early for a forty-year-old woman with a vivacious five-year-old daughter and a pubescent son of questionable sexuality, who was currently in his room with someone else’s pubescent son of questionable sexuality doing God knows what. 

She sighed, shoving her hand in a quilted mitt, and reached in the oven for breakfast.

It wasn’t like the old days, when Justin—her sweet, tiny son in striped pajamas—would come barreling into the kitchen, asking if Brian could “come over” for breakfast, only to leave and return with him in ten seconds flat. Now, Brian was the one who barreled into the kitchen, skinny legs and arms too long for his torso, bruises on his jaw, cracking voice asking faux-sweetly, “What’s for breakfast, Mom?”

He was dressed in a pair of jeans that had become small two growth spurts ago, and a white T-shirt reading, “Smiths is Dead.” The look of him—that naughty, tortured, beautiful boy—made Jennifer want to both cuddle him tightly to her chest and kick him out of the house.

But she didn’t do either of those. Instead, she smiled as genuinely as possible, motioned toward the cinnamon toast cooling on the counter, and asked him how he’d slept.

Brian ducked his head a little at that, cheeks flaming up, and shrugged, sauntering over to grab a clean plate from the dish rack.

Yes, Jennifer definitely wanted to cuddle him, even if she was fairly certain that he was both a thirteen-year-old smoker and her son’s boyfriend.

When Justin finally appeared, Brian had already consumed three pieces of toast and half a carafe of juice.

“Morning, sweetie,” Jennifer said, trying to kiss the blond’s cheek as he passed, only to be gently shrugged away.

Justin made a beeline for the chair across the table from Brian and plopped down, automatically grabbing four pieces of toast with his bare hands and dropping them onto a plate. Though he was apparently unable to offer his mother a “good morning” in return or even so much as a cheek to be kissed, Justin had no trouble asking for milk instead of OJ because the juice was “that fake Tropicana stuff.”

“Hi,” Brian said in monotone, a bored expression plastered on his face.

Justin rolled his eyes in reply and accepted the carton of milk his mother handed him without so much as a “thank you.”

***** 

Though it was a relatively warm morning, a cool, light drizzle began to fall from the sky after breakfast, right after the boys stepped outside to go for a walk around the neighborhood.

“Great,” Brian said, turning his face up to the rain and scrunching his nose as droplets landed on his skin. He stuck out his tongue, catching raindrops as he forced a breathy laugh out his nose.

Justin was quiet, doing nothing but crossing his arms over his chest and watching his feet as they moved across the slowly speckling sidewalk.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brian asked him, using the front of his Smiths shirt to dry his face.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Well, it is.” Justin sucked a tiny strawberry seed from between his front teeth.

“Are you pissed at me for wanting to-”

“No.”

Brian groaned in frustration, grabbing the back of his neck and rolling his head from side to side, working out the kinks.

“You just bother me sometimes,” Justin whispered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “With the stuff you do.”

“What do I do?”

“Last night.”

“Huh?” Brian raised an eyebrow, reaching over to tug a strand of Justin’s hair.

The blond pulled away, fingers bending and unbending in his jean pockets. “What’d your dad do to you last night?”

Brian clenched his jaw, teeth biting teeth to pain.

They followed the sidewalk until it ended at the iron gates with the neighborhood welcome sign, and stopped, both boys standing there, stone still like two dead thirteen-year-olds.

“I think my mom knows,” Justin said randomly, quietly, sitting down on the edge of the sidewalk and pulling Brian down with him.

“About what?”

“Us.”

Brian sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down, leaving gentle pink marks on his skin. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

Justin stared for a long time at the raindrops on his sandals before murmuring, “I mean, I think she knows we’re…”

“Gay.”

“Yeah.”

Brian leaned backward until he was splayed flat on the sidewalk and Justin turned to stare at him—at the skinniness of his arms, the gentle curve of his now slightly apparent Adam’s apple, the still-smoothness of his face where one day a beard would grow.

Three years ago he would’ve climbed on top of Brian and laughed right in his face, so close that he’d smell the rainwater on his skin. Now, Justin leaned back beside him, only their elbows touching.

“Remember when we were younger?” Brian asked, as if reading Justin’s mind.

They lay there for what felt like forever, until a police officer pulled up and asked if everything was all right.

“Yeah,” Justin said, moving to his feet and dusting off his clothing. “Everything’s fine.”  
When the boys entered to the house later on, chewing their lips and scuffing dirty sandals across the polished hardwood floors, they found Mrs. Taylor on the phone, speaking in a low voice as she twisted the phone cord nervously around her index finger.

Justin pressed his lips together and refused to look at Brian.

"Honey?" Jennifer called, holding the phone against her chest and motioning for her son to come over. "Justin, it's-"

The blond shook his head no and slipped off silently into the living room and toward the stairs, fluid like silk sheets sliding across skin.

Brian watched Jennifer for a moment, watched the way her eyes clouded like something fell down right out of her eyelids. He moved slowly over to the refrigerator, grabbed a can of Pepsi, and gnawed the insides of his cheeks as he walked past on his way toward Justin. He'd seen that look too many times. He knew it by heart.

Justin was on his bed, flopped on his stomach and stretched out like a starfish. His shirt rode up in the back, revealing three inches of soft, smooth flesh that Brian stared at as he popped the tab on his soda can and took a loud, slurping sip.

"My dad's still a million times more fucked up than yours," he uttered, wiping his mouth off on his bare arm.

Justin shrugged, bringing his arms in and folding them up under his chin. "I don't care about my dad."

"I don't care about mine."

It was hot in the room, the creaking ceiling fan not doing much to circulate air, so Brian slammed his Pepsi down on Justin's desk and went over to open the window. It was stuffy, like he couldn't breathe. Like the air weighed ten pounds even though it was supposed to weigh nothing.

"Dad's so fucking stupid," he whispered, taking a seat on the window sill and sighing at the feel of cool, drizzly air slapping at his back. "Last night... Last night he came in, all drunk and shit, and started trying to get me to tell him where the money is." Brian shook his head, mouth curved up into a strange smile. "And I wouldn't."

Justin propped his head up on his arm and stared at his friend. "So what'd he do?" He asked cautiously, through barely even a breath.

"Just the usual stuff." The kid shrugged, grabbing at his own arms in some sort of self-hug before breaking into a wide, painful grin. "But he ended up getting this idea that Mom kept it in the pantry, way up high, so he got a chair and started...searching and stuff, pulling shit off the shelves and throwing it on the kitchen floor." Brian swallowed, digging his nails into the skin of his biceps until pink marks appeared in the flesh. "And it was so fucking funny because he lost his balance and fucking...fucking fell. I was...I was..." He trailed off, amused expression dissolving in a matter of seconds. "I was laughing. Laughing when I left."

Justin twisted onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin lazy circles. His teeth were slick with saliva that tasted like raw nerves, and he didn't want that anymore. He didn't want to taste it. As he rolled his eyes to the side, fixing his gaze to the right, he saw Brian climb off the sill and walk slowly, unsteadily like a young child over to the bed, stare burning holes through the tops of his red Chuck Taylors. 

He climbed up, joining Justin on the bed, and curled up against his side. The boys didn't speak.

Justin felt hot breath against the skin of his neck and the heaviness of a limp arm flopped across his belly. He swallowed that nervous-metal-spit and closed his eyes as a pair of lips touched him right on the jaw.

They were still like that when Mrs. Taylor walked in and found them later, frozen and silent, eyes closed as if they were sleeping. Her heart leapt for a second, skipping a beat, bouncing up into her throat before slowly sliding back down.

Brian's forearm was touching Justin's bare skin where his shirt rode up, and his nose was pressed against the other boy's cheek, right near his lips. Jennifer didn't know what to do or say. She twisted her fingers together, sweat like a slippery lube, and swallowed.

At some point, Justin opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling and absently, with his left hand, stroking Brian's arm. Lying there felt good, even though it shouldn't have. He knew Brian was just being melancholy and needed touch, Justin was and did as well, but being close like that made his stomach tingle.

He turned his head a little to the side, meaning to maybe give Brian a kiss, but as his eyes quickly scanned across the room, he saw a figure in the doorway that caused him to jump, lungs deflating into flat, pink balloons. 

"Mom!" Justin yelled, twisting away from Brian as quickly as he could. His heart beat at his ribcage with a pair of boxing gloves, cheeks darkening to a deep, inflamed pink. "Oh my God! Get out!"

Jennifer apologized, though half-heartedly and fidgeting, looking everywhere but at her son's face.

"Go the fuck away," Justin whispered harshly so that only Brian could hear.

"You two want to come out with Molly and I?" Jennifer asked, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "We're going to the grocery store and around."

Brian looked at Justin, who widened his eyes in a big fat no and said, voice icy, "Go away." 

Jennifer coughed, taking in the sight of her thirteen-year-old son stretched out on a bed with his stomach showing, and barely resisted the urge to demand that he and Brian come along.

"Well," she said, voice wavering slightly. "If you change your mind…"

Justin sighed, sitting up and knitting his eyebrows together in annoyance. "We won't."

***** 

Jennifer and Molly left an hour later, and Brian and Justin left fifteen minutes after that, bus fare in their pockets and a bit of awkwardness itching under their skin. They caught the bus, played eleven games of Tic Tac Toe on an old brochure for the Warhol Museum, and then hopped off in the middle of Pittsburgh, four blocks away from the movie theatre.

The Mask of Zorro was playing, which neither of them had been looking forward to, but it was the only thing they were allowed to see that wasn't animated or idiotic.

"So how lame do you think this'll be on a scale of one to ten?" Brian asked, bumping Justin with his shoulder as they entered the theatre, clutching buckets of popcorn to their chests.

"Seven," Justin replied, spotting two seats and leading the way.

It turned out to be a little less lame than they'd thought, maybe a five, but honestly, they'd stopped paying attention a little more than halfway through when they spotted Mrs. Benson, their Civics & Economics teacher, making out with some gross guy that didn't appear to be her husband.

"I don't know if I'm disturbed or intrigued," Justin laughed on their way out of the theatre, dumping his only half-eaten popcorn in the trash bin and rubbing excess butter off on his pants.

"I hope you're not intrigued," Brian said, pushing his friend along with his index finger.

"Why?"

"Just because."

Justin smiled, albeit secretly, shuffling his sandals across the popcorn-riddled floor and making his way toward the exit.

"Wait!" Brian grabbed his friend by the fabric of his T-shirt and pulled him back and over to the arcade area of the cinema, a grin splitting his face in half.

"What?"

"Got any change?"

*****

This time they applied their tattoos with red faces and laughter at the kitchen sink.

"This is so dumb," Justin said, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the counter. "Where should I put it?"

Brian huffed a laugh, sliding the dragon tattoo out of its little protective cardboard folder and grabbing a green sponge from the side of the sink. "Lemme do it," he said, something mischievous in his eyes.

"Only if I can do you." The blond blanched, eyes widening. "I mean…"

"Shut up," Brian said with a eye roll and laugh, turning Justin around to get access to his shoulder.

***** 

Mrs. Taylor and Molly arrived later on with two pepperoni pizzas and a bucket of ice cream.

The boys were watching television shirtless on the couch when they walked in, and Jennifer was compelled to freeze for a moment, heart leaping into her throat and Molly tugging on her blouse, asking for her lollipop.

"Um," she started, reaching up to rub a hand over her mouth. "Pizza?"

She made her way into the kitchen, spying two carelessly thrown T-shirts on the counter, and immediately her arms began to shake. What on earth had they been…?

"Check out my tattoo, Mrs. Taylor," Brian said, entering the room with a laugh, outstretching his arm and flexing his muscles, causing the slithery blue dragon to dance across his bicep. 

Justin followed closely behind, not laughing, nervously moving over to grab his shirt.

***** 

When Brian was in the shower that night, Jennifer slipped into Justin's room and shut the door behind her.

"I didn't say you could come in," Justin murmured brattily, dropping the art magazine he'd been reading and narrowing his eyes at his mother.

Mrs. Taylor sighed, moving over to her son's bed and taking a seat at the foot. "Well, I don't much care," she said, not unkindly but with an air of exhaustion.

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

"About what?" Justin closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"Honey…" Jennifer began, tongue going dry. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, but had no idea how to say it. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she licked her lips and tried again. "Are you and Brian…?"

"No. Get out."

"Justin."

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't want to talk about this."

Jennifer rubbed at her throbbing temples and nodded. "I know you don't, and frankly, I don't either." Her voice was tired and lifeless. "But just tell me, so that I can…"

"Eew!" Justin shrieked, cringing. "We're not having sex, if that's what you're asking."

"Okay." The woman swallowed, wringing her hands. "Well, are you…"

"Gay?"

The room went silent.

***** 

When Brian entered Justin's room, borrowed sweats and T-shirt sticking to his damp skin, he found the blond staring blankly at the wall, a sketchpad across his lap but seeming to serve no purpose other than to exist there, splayed out across two fuzzy legs.

"Hey," Brian said, pushing his wet hair back out of his face and moving over toward the bed.

Justin didn't say anything.

"You okay?"

"She knows."

"What?"

"Mom." Justin flopped backward onto his pillows, allowing his sketchbook to slide off his lap, off the bed and onto the floor. "She asked me, Brian." 

"And?"

The blond shrugged, running his hands across his face. "And…nothing. She said she just wanted to know for sure."

Brian swallowed, sitting down on the edge of the bed and shrugging. "That's good, though, right?"

"I don't know." A tear slid down Justin's face, and out of embarrassment, he reached up to swipe it away before Brian could see. "God," he said, taking a deep breath. "My dad would kill me."

Brian nodded, crawling up the bed and stretching out beside his friend. "But you don't see him anymore, so he can't."

"Yeah," Justin answered, carding his fingers through his hair.

Brian didn't say anything about his own father.

They lay there for a while, staring at the plastic stars on the ceiling that were invisible in the lamplight but would glow once the lights went out. Brian wanted to turn the lights out.

"Remember when we were little?" He asked, turning onto his side to watch Justin's face.

"When none of this shit mattered?"

"Yeah."

Justin swallowed hard and breathed out something shaky. Something uneven and cold and tearful. "I hate this," he said, eyes shining. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it." His voice was quiet, prologue to a cry.

Brian nodded and leaned in to press his forehead against that of the other boy. "Me too," he said, wrapping his arm around Justin's waist. "Sometimes I want to be dead. I would rather be fucking dead than..."

"Shut up," Justin said harshly, tears dripping down his face. "Don't ever say that."

"I can say it if I want."

"Fuck you, Brian."

They lay there for what felt like hours, breathing hot, sticky breath into each other's faces. Tears streamed down Justin's cheeks, but Brian didn't cry. His face was red and hazel eyes sparkled, but the dam never broke. He wouldn't let it.

***** 

Justin showered in his mother's bathroom at seven. The water was hot, scalding, beating down on his body and bringing blood to the surface of his skin, dusting him pink and rendering him sleepy and sluggish, warm like a baby.

He pressed his forehead to the shower wall and closed his eyes, feeling the tears burn down his cheeks and snot plug up his nose. He didn't want this. He wanted it. He didn't fucking want it. He breathed deeply, shuddering in the steamy air, and shoved off the water with his fist.

Brian was on Justin's bedroom floor upstairs, clawing at his thighs with his fingernails.

***** 

"What happened?" Justin asked later, sliding under the bed sheets and peering over at Brian, who had just pulled off his sweatpants. Pink lines slid down his legs, as if he'd been scratched with a rake.

"Nothing."

Justin sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No," Brian answered coldly, joining the other boy in bed and stretching out on his stomach. He folded the pillow up under him and buried his face in the warm cotton. It smelled like shampoo and fabric softener. It smelled like home. 

Not his home, though.

Justin rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. The lamp was still on. 

Brian told him to turn it off. "I like the dark," he said quietly.

"You can't see anything in the dark," Justin whispered, reaching over to switch off the lamp, anyway.

Brian nodded into the pillow. "I know."

And neither boy really knew how it happened, but minutes later, they were twisted together under the sheets, hands pushing up under oversized T-shirts and warm, bare legs tangling. 

"I'm going to kiss you, okay?" Brian breathed, grabbing a lock of Justin's hair and squeezing the feathery strands in his fist. 

Justin nodded, parting his lips and closing his eyes. 

It was wet—all clumsy, teenaged tongues and mouths that couldn't yet fully follow the rhythm of desire. Justin decided that Brian tasted like shards of grass and cigarettes; the blond's tongue made Brian recall cotton candy and cinnamon gum.

"Don't hurt yourself again," Justin sighed, sliding his hands around to Brian's lower back and stroking across the smooth, flat expanse of skin at the top of his underwear.

Brian didn't say anything in reply. He wiggled a little against the other boy and sucked in a lungful of cold air that made his teeth tingle.

Justin froze for a moment, pushing his head back into the pillow and staring up into Brian's dark, glittering eyes.

"I hate you so much," he said, swallowing around his words and then Brian's mouth. He reached up to grasp the other boy's ears, petting them, folding them gently with his fingers, feeling the hotness in his crotch, the pressure, the hard-soft-white-light of him and Brian and movement.

His jaw was wet, lips red, nose pressing painfully against that of the other boy. And he was rocking, and Brian was rocking, and then they weren't so much kissing as staring at each other with eyes wide and mouths slightly open.

They were silent. Justin's shoulders shook, Brian was sweating, and then their eyes were squeezed shut and cheeks were flooding with a hot flush that grew from under their skin and covered their bodies in warmth.

***** 

Brian coughed a little, supporting himself with a hand on either side of Justin's body, and tried to relax. His skin was hot and his underwear was damp, and he felt Justin underneath him, just as hot and just as damp. 

He wanted to say something, but he didn't. He didn't know what he could have possibly said.

It was dark, the room was stuffy, and Justin smelled like salty sweat and French kisses. 

The blond sighed a little, reaching up a hand to stroke Brian's eyebrows—first the left, then the right. His stomach was quivery and his legs were burning up, twisted with the other boy's under the covers, where everything was sticky.

"I don't hate you," he said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Brian pressed his lips to the corner of Justin's mouth and closed his eyes.


End file.
